


mission parameters

by brawlite



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bloodplay, Brock Rumlow Is Really Nasty, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dubious Consent, Extremely Dubious Consent, Gun Kink, Gunplay, HYDRA Trash Party, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, dead dove do not eat, exacerbation of wounds for sexual stimulation, gore if you squint, sexual violence and so much more, that is not proper gun maintenance, there is no merit to this fic i am so sorry, very subtle background rumlow/rollins if you squint because obviously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-19
Updated: 2015-08-19
Packaged: 2018-04-15 13:06:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4607862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brawlite/pseuds/brawlite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rumlow takes advantage and exploits mission parameters for his own benefit. The asset is rewarded.</p>
            </blockquote>





	mission parameters

**Author's Note:**

> if you do not enjoy gunplay, this is not for you. if you do not enjoy bloodplay, this is also probably not for you.
> 
> extremely dubious consent ahead.

Brock drags the barrel of the gun through the soldier's wound -- and he doesn't wince, doesn't whine, doesn't even twitch. The metal, scuffed and dirty with recent use, wears the blood so well: a perfect canvas. The blood's not entirely liquid at this point, thick and clotting and sticky against the barrel of the pistol. It's beautiful. The whole picture is a work of art that Rumlow could admire for hours upon hours. 

He wants to take this home with him, keep it forever -- keep the _soldier_ forever. 

"Lick." Brock commands, holding the gun up to the soldier's lips. It takes a beat for him to comply, if only because the order is out of place, incongruous with the previous order to _hold still_. But the asset is smart; he's a goddamn _miracle_ , and he knows well enough to figure out which order supersedes the other. This kid is perfection, Brock decides, as he watches the asset dart out that pink tongue to draw it up the metal barrel. There is nothing hesitant or tentative about the movement, either -- he follows the order without a thought or a care that he is cleaning up his own half-coagulated blood on a dirty pistol. 

The solider gets into it, despite not having been told to do so. But he's intelligent, capable of extrapolating Brock's orders into something that Rumlow will be more pleased by than just simply _getting the job done_. It doesn't take a genius to figure out that Brock doesn't give one shit about his gun actually being _clean --_ it's the process that he's after. The soldier flattens his tongue, draws it up the barrel again: slower this time, more languid. The asset doesn't care that he's currently bleeding from a bullet wound on a muscular thigh; he's focused entirely on orders, and Brock respects that. 

"Good boy."

The praise isn't ignored -- not quite. It should be, for all intents and purposes, but Brock knows better than that. He knows that praising the soldier reverberates straight down into the kid's bones, makes him go a little weak and a little soft around the edges. It spurns him on into his task, gets him real into it, licking the gun until he probably can't even taste the blood _or_ the gunpowder anymore. He shudders minutely when Rumlow echoes the words again.

But -- it's a long wait for extraction and Rumlow can't call the fun over yet. 

Brock just hums and pulls the gun back and away from the soldier's mouth, watching a little ribbon of saliva trail between the asset's tongue and the barrel before it snaps, falling onto the soldier's face; the kid doesn't even blink. What a _good fucking boy_. He's almost too much fun to play with -- or he would be, anyway, if anyone ever told Rumlow _no._

 _No_ , don't touch the asset outside of necessity. _No,_ don't confuse the asset with contradictory orders. _No,_ don't injure the asset or exacerbate his injuries. _No,_ to anything outside of mission parameters.

Funny thing about mission parameters, though, is that Rumlow gets to set them. And, for now? He hasn't called the mission complete. 

Not quite yet.

This time, the soldier twitches involuntarily as Brock draws the gun through the still-bleeding wound. The would itself is doing better, healing as quickly as expected -- but there's still blood there, still something for Brock to mess with. He does it again to the other side of the gun, getting it nice and coated. The soldier's body shakes -- must have hit a nerve -- and Brock rearranges him. It's not much work to haul the soldier between his legs, warm back resting against Rumlow's chest. He can easily bracket the asset with his legs on either side of the killing machine, and it doesn't take much convincing to make the soldier tip his head back to rest against Brock's shoulder, face nestled perfectly right under Brock's chin. He can feel the man's panting breaths against his throat, shallow and then oh-so deep.

Damned fucking cute is what it is.

"Hey Sweetheart, you 'comfy?" He can't stop himself from intoning the words like he is talking to a child or a animal or a flighty bitch, all false comfort and faux adoration. It doesn't matter -- it's not like the asset knows or cares where Brock's affections lie. 

Brock gets a huff of warm breath as a response. It's not exactly following protocol to the letter when the asset doesn't answer him with a full status report when requested, but Brock's never been a huge stickler for the rules. He likes bending them, twisting them, letting them work _for_ him, instead of against him. The soldier knows this down to the bone, well enough to have it come back to him every time he comes out of cryo. It always takes him a few tries, but he remembers. It could be a sign of a fatal malfunction, the in-adherence to standard operating procedures -- but until the soldier starts snapping necks, Rumlow doesn't really _care_. 

He lets the fingers of his free hand card through the mess of the asset's hair, pulling it away from his eyes, working through some of the knots. "Yeah? That so?" It's like having a conversation with an animal, but Brock doesn't mind. He likes the sound of his own voice, likes the way the asset's wide eyes watch him near-constantly, the way he hangs on every word.

Slowly, he lets his fingers tighten and pull the soldier's head back, tipping it upward ever so slightly, elongating and exposing his neck. "You can rest in a little bit, baby. Just one more thing and mission's over."

As if on command, the soldier's eyes harden; there is still a mission to complete, still a task at hand. Brock can see the gears churning in the depths of the asset's consciousness. It takes him no less than three seconds to start looking around for the gun again, head jerking in Rumlow's tight grip on his hair in his eagerness. Brock can't help but laugh: the kid is over-eager. Sure, he's probably exhausted and in pain and just trying to complete the mission for some down time, but that doesn't lessen the appearance that he's gagging for it, for Brock's piece.

"Patience." Brock soothes, bringing the blood-painted gun back up from where he had it rested on his leg, held steady by his other hand. He takes his time with it, of course, inspecting the damn thing like he's going to find anything of note. Nothing special about his field pistol, other than it's _real_ dirty again and needs a good thorough cleaning.

He holds it out a little too-far from the soldier's mouth, watches the asset stick out his tongue and pull against Brock's hand in his hair to try to reach. It's cute, just how hard he's willing to try. After a few seconds of effort, Rumlow lets him win: he presses the tip of the gun down on that flat, stuck-out tongue and just lets it rest there. Like a fucking tongue depressor. The asset's mouth is half open, and after about thirty seconds of Brock just letting the gun rest there, a line of saliva drips from the corner of the asset's mouth.

Brock tsk's, frowns, and pulls the gun away. "Messy." Like the kid has any control over the situation or his own bodily functions. It doesn't matter -- the word makes the soldier's lips tip downward and stare down at his chest where the drool landed. Puzzled. "Here." Sure, one of Brock's hands is occupied with holding the soldier's hair, but he uses the back of his other hand to wipe at the corner of the other man's lips. "Good as new." His hand is slick with spit tinged pink with a little bit of blood -- but it's only there, too distracting, for a second before Brock is wiping it on the soldier's tac gear.

The muzzle of the gun taps agains the soldier's lips again at the same time as Brock says, "Open -- wide." Orders are always best when given precisely. "Stick your tongue out, sweetheart. Yeah, that's good." Slowly, Brock coaxes the gun into the soldier's mouth, careful to not touch the insides of his cheeks. He makes no means to stop halfway, just goes until his knuckles are bumping against lips, against teeth. 

The asset makes a choking noise, involuntary, as Rumlow's grip shifts and the pistol moves slightly and hits the side of his throat. Whoops. 

"Careful." The thick saliva that pools at the bottom of his mouth is a plus, though. 

Brock steadies himself, leans forward and crowds into the soldier's space, as he pushes the gun slowly to the beginning of the asset's throat. Tips it sideways, because there's more space to really get it in there. A few seconds are enough time for the soldier to get his gag-reflex under control, to open up his throat like a good goddamn trick pony and lean forward against Brock's hand to take more of the gun. Kid's always been good at showing initiative, and Brock doesn't mind that. Sure, he should be just a willing puppet in Rumlow's hands, should be loose and compliant -- but where's the fun in that? Brock likes a little bit of _life_ in them. He likes, in particular, the way the asset is motivated nearly entirely by praise, by the desire to do good in Rumlow's eyes.

So, Brock gives him something to do good _at_. He's a generous guy. All about _giving_. 

So he gives -- and gives. He brings the barrel of the gun in and out of the soldier's throat, occasionally tapping the trigger guard against teeth. He isn't too gentle about it, but he keeps any roughness out of his motions -- just a cool, calm, decisive movement. After a minute, the soldier just gives in to the movement, leans his head back and rests it against Brock's hand: trusting. He moves with the gun and lets it happen, opens his throat and only occasionally makes gurgling noises when his breath catches wrong. 

It's sweet, just how pliant he is, wrapped up in Brock like this. How beautiful he is, with bloody saliva dripping down his chin. How trusting.

After a while -- long enough, anyway -- Brock pulls the gun back, watching the thick spit pull from the barrel in strands. It's not clean yet, not by a long-shot, but the soldier hasn't even tried to pull his own weight, he's just let Brock use his mouth as a receptacle. "Lick." He holds the pistol at a reasonable distance this time and watches as the soldier gingerly leans forward to clean it with his tongue. His throat probably smarts a little, but he doesn't let it hold him back. 

"Good boy."

The asset's tongue is wide and slick with bloody spit at this point. He's trying his hardest to get the coagulated blood from the barrel, but he can only do so well when he has only so many resources at his disposal. It doesn't _really_ matter, but it's fucking adorable how frustrated he's beginning to get -- going harder and harder and letting little noises slip out in his haste. There's not much point in Brock holding onto his hair anymore, so he lets go, uses his free fingers to wipe up some of the saliva dripping from the gun, from where its collected at the corners of the soldier's mouth. Instead of wiping his hand down on the tac suit again, he imagines a better way, because he can't help himself, not really. With little ceremony and less warning, he pushes his fingers into that pliant mouth alongside the gun and lets the soldier close his lips around both.

The soldier is good, works them both with his tongue before Brock eases up the load and removes the gun. The asset makes an annoyed noise as he sucks hard on Brock's fingers, perhaps because Brock isn't simply letting them be still -- he's running them along the other man's gums, his teeth, his tongue. Rumlow is expressly deviating the soldier from his mission, interfering with the final outcome, so _obviously_ he is annoyed. Brock can't help himself, though; the temptation to prod and explore is far too enticing. 

Another frustrated noise has Rumlow pulling his fingers out, grasping the asset's chin in his spit-slick fingers, and leveling him with a _look_. Forcing him eye to eye, "Why are you fucking _whining_?" 

After a good long inspection of the asset's face, Brock loses a little certainty: it's definitely not annoyance. Brock has _seen_ the soldier annoyed before, and this wide-eyed look of blown pupils and half-open mouth is definitely not it. The kid is _panting_ , occasionally making the faintest of whines with his half-open mouth. Breathing hard. Licking his lips. Straining against Brock's grasp on his chin, fucking _squirming_. A quick glance down the soldier's lithe body is all Brock needs to confirm.

"Well, _fuck."_ He laughs, because there isn't much else to do. "I'll fucking be. Looks like you've got yourself a little problem, sweetheart." Brock runs his thumb over the asset's lower lip, admiring the look of full blown desire in all its recognized glory, now. It's beautiful. The _soldier_ is beautiful, panting and wanton, with lips and chin painted in spit and blood. 

He's a mess. 

This isn't quite the outcome that Brock had been trying for. A little frustration, a little hard work, sure, but not the goddamn Winter Soldier squirming and needy in his lap. But Brock Rumlow can handle all situations, all eventualities. And this is just a challenge (albeit a beautiful one), just like anything else HYDRA has thrown at him in the past. 

Brock gives the soldier the gun to lick again, because it's easy. It's distracting. It's the _mission_. Or, the soldier's mission, anyway. Brock's mission has suddenly gotten much more complicated. 

While the soldier goes to town on the gun, eager tongue and all, Brock lets his free hand explore. He drags his nails over the soldier's neck, lets his fingertips run over his ears, pulls his palm down the other man's torso. He has no real intentions of getting him out of the tac gear with all of its bells and whistles and fasteners -- but he's sure as hell fantasizing about running his nails over the soldier's nipples and over his ribs. The limitation of the gear doesn't stop him from pressing down with the heel of his hand, right over where those little pink nubs would be. All of Brock's attention has been drawing little noises out of the asset, but the rough press of his palm has the other man wriggling in Rumlow's lap, gasping out a wet moan against the gun. 

"Good boy," Brock praises, because there has truly never been a better time to utter those words than now. And because he now knows it will go straight to the asset's dick, _apparently_. 

He lets himself keep exploring while the soldier tongues the gun clean, or as clean as it's ever going to get without proper care. He's not particularly careful about it, or gentle, but the asset seems to respond better to a rougher touch. Brock can do that, he can make that happen without the asset ever having to say _please_. 

Though, the idea of him begging for it ain't half bad either.

Maybe another time, another mission. Right now, Brock's already got a plan forming in his head, a perfect execution. Without looking, because the show of the soldier tonguing off his pistol isn't one Brock wants to pause, he pops the button on the other man's pants. It's not a rush or an emergency, despite the fact that the squirming man in his lap's motions and sounds beg to differ. Before he continues, Brock palms the long, hard length that's currently straining against the fly of the soldier's trousers. Slow and steady. The asset is fucking eager, involuntarily bucking against him, hard enough to pound nails. 

The soldier chokes out another noise, this one peppered with frustration as well as a moan as Brock presses down with his palm, fingers gripping at the length even hindered by a few layers of clothing. As if Brock Rumlow has ever let a few articles of clothing get in his way. If he wouldn't get crucified for it back at HQ, he'd cut the soldier's clothes off himself with a knife, let the pieces fall to shambles around them. He wouldn't even have to be careful about it either -- if the knife caught skin? It didn't matter. He'd press into those bleeding cuts and give the kid something to really moan about. 

"Patience, baby." This is new, but also not terribly surprising. Brock's seen the soldier with an erection before, hard and pressing underneath his tac gear, but he's never seen the other man annoyed by it, either. Then again -- Brock hasn't ever seen anyone play with the soldier like he'd just been doing, though he's sure it's happened before behind closed doors. How could it _not_ have? That doesn't change anything, though, doesn't change the way the soldier is pliant and prone in Brock's lap, doesn't change the way he's moaning and bucking against Brock's hand. He's practically gagging for it, full of annoyance, most likely at his own weakness or confusion. But that's also alright -- Brock's right here, ready and willing to take care of him, to relieve the pressure.

After a bit more teasing, Rumlow gives into the plaintive whines because he's a sucker for those big blue eyes. They'd look even better with tears streaming out of them, a scream choked back from the soldier's lips, but for now, Brock will take what he can get. There's always a tomorrow.

With a quick motion of his hand he tugs those pants down just enough and takes the other man into his hand. He gives a few experimental tugs before he spits into his palm to repeat the motion again, this time easier with a little slide. The soldier _loses it_ , or he would if he wasn't currently still wrapped up in the task of cleaning the gun with his tongue. It's subtle, how distracted he is, but his eyes go half-lidded and glazed and he chokes out a moan as he wraps his lips around the barrel of the gun. It's _beautiful_. 

The kid's gone from meticulously cleaning to sloppily _sucking off_ in a matter of seconds. The shift coincided immediately with Brock's fingers wrapping around the asset's length, which isn't much of a surprise, but is a good mental image for Brock to tuck away for a rainy day. The fact that the kid has no real walls to break down, no facade to crack through, is enticing. He is pliant, prone, and entirely willing to do whatever Brock asks of him.

Rumlow would bet his entire pension that if he asked the kid to suck him off, to drink down his spunk like milk, he'd do it in a heartbeat. 

But, while that thought is tempting, it's also not happening. Right now, Brock's still getting a feel for the asset, still making sure his dick would be in safe hands -- or a safe mouth, as is. He's not keen on it getting bitten off for the promise of an orgasm, as hot as it might be. Besides: the mental image of the soldier moaning wetly against Brock's piece, of him coming apart like he is in Brock's lap, is enough to get him through plenty of long nights.

Brock presses the barrel of the gun to the soldier's bloody thigh once more, relishing in the way his body writhes against Brock's at the contact, undulating against his chest. The soldier gasps, moans, and his hips jerk straight upward into his handler's grip. Clearly, someone's had a fun time mixing up pain and pleasure for the asset in the past; and Brock can only be a little jealous he didn't get there first. He does it again and again, even though the wound is no longer leaking blood. It's still tender. The asset twitches and bucks and whines -- and _won't stay still_. He's an absolute wreck in Brock's arms, coming apart in pieces, eyes looking completely lost. 

Blood and spit drip from the corners of the soldier's open, panting mouth. Hygiene be damned -- Brock leans forward and licks it up in a messy stripe. It's so ill-advised he might have actually lost his mind hours ago before the drop, but he can't stop himself; the image of the soldier falling apart in front of him is just too much. He catches the asset's lips with his own and licks into his mouth, tasting blood and spit and gunpowder and oil. He eats up every noise the asset makes.

It's a blur of biting and licking and grasping from there. Brock's heartbeat is ringing in his ears and the only thing he can taste is iron, acidic and tangy on his tongue. The soldier's moans are loud as fuck, gasped and grunted and whined against Rumlow's lips. The asset is careless and debased, completely undisciplined. Hard, Brock rams the barrel of the gun against the gunshot wound, digging in until he can feel fresh blood well up around his knuckles. He doesn't care. He's not thinking straight, not with the way the soldier's spit slick mouth moves against his, kissing back, pushing back, fighting against him.

Without rhythm, the soldier's hips buck fruitlessly against his hand. Brock gives in finally, easily: kisses the asset like he's drowning and jerks the soldier off in solid, firm motions. Maybe a little too rough. When the other man's breathing gets ragged, when his moans become erratic and high pitched, Rumlow rolls the gun again, gets it real nice and in there, feeling warm blood pool against his hand. The soldier shouts -- jerks, and spasms against Brock's body before becoming still. He feels the warm spunk drip onto his hand, a perfect mirror image to his now freshly blood-covered other hand. Beautiful symmetry, right there. After a few cursory tugs on the soldier's softening cock, just enough to get the kid twitching and whining, Brock lets go.

Brock lets the soldier stay in his lap: panting, catching his breath, recovering from the little aftershocks. It's still a show, even if the climax is over. Brock still gets to wipe the spit from the corners of the soldier's mouth, gets to push his sweaty hair from his eyes, gets to tuck him back into his pants and wipe that spunk on the asset's chest. Hot fucking _damn_. 

As a treat, he lets the soldier lick the gun clean again.

\-- 

"Took you fucking long enough." Brock huffs as Jack throws the door open. 

His second in command looks a little worse for the wear, but it doesn't stop him from performing a visual assessment of the room as he hauls the bags by the door onto his shoulders. "The soldier get hurt?"

Brock lets himself glance to where the soldier is sitting on a chair away from him, straight-backed and eyes-forward, focused on Jack. His leg is taped up nice and pretty and there's not even a drop of blood seeping through the bandages. Brock grins, "Not too bad. We took care of it, didn't we, sweetheart?"

Jack just rolls his eyes at the pet name and mutters something under his breath, but packs up the car anyway. 

In a couple of hours the soldier will be good as new.

In a few more, he won't remember a thing. 


End file.
